


now you see me

by grapehyasynth



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Stevie sets David up on a blind date.





	now you see me

**Author's Note:**

> It feels foolish to post this RIGHT before open fic night drops but when it comes to fic I am mightily impatient. So consider this like the opening act for OFN? Like if an open mic night had a starting act that nobody had heard of???

“I think I should set you up on a blind date,” Stevie says, without preamble, because no amount of preamble would make that any less alarming.

David stops pretending to arrange the flyers at the corner of Stevie’s desk. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, “I just spent the better part of _two hours_ dissecting Matt Bomer’s obsession with me and _that’s_ what you took away from it?”

Stevie blinks at him innocently. “Oh no, I heard _all_ of it. I heard the part where you and Matt Bomer both happened to be at Playa Grande at the same time, and I heard the part where you spent three weeks watching him surf even though he was there with someone else and he kept calling you Donald, _and_ the part where he mentioned Costa Rica to Kathie Lee and Hoda the other day and now you think that’s his way of telling you he wants to see you, even though he’s married, and you’re just _wracked_ with indecision because you’d hate to be a homewrecker but ‘he’s, like, _really_ pretty and _so nice_ ’-”

 “ _Okay,”_ David cuts her off. “What’s your point?”

 She shrugs, smiling cherubically while a gaggle of backpackers traipse through the hostel lobby. He knows that smile. It means she’s scheming. “I’m just saying. You don’t seem to be very good at picking your own romantic partners, and I know you pretty well, so--”

 He wants to say that blind dates are unilaterally terrible, he even has a quip ready about Kofi Annan attempting to get blind dates classified as torture. But damn it he’s intrigued, and he’s _bored_ \- it’s a Thursday night and he’s in Queens, of all places, bothering Stevie at this dumb youth hostel where he’d first crashed when he’d moved to New York in a fit of pique.

 “Did you have someone in mind?” he asks grudgingly, studying his fingernails as if he doesn’t really care.

 Stevie grins and hops off her chair to grab her phone. He’s not sure he’s seen her this excited since the new shampoo came in. “As a matter of fact, I do! I’ve thought for a while that you two would get along, actually. It just... makes sense, somehow.”

 David narrows his eyes. “Is this person a mime? Or a trapeze artist? Or a magician? Or a--”

 “Don’t you trust me, David?”

 “Frankly, no,” David mutters, but he doesn’t even convince himself, because he tends to trust everyone a little too much, dumping his trust all over people, and Stevie’s the first person who hasn’t made him want to vomit from the naked vulnerability of it all.

 “This’ll be good,” Stevie assures him warmly, clearly pleased with herself, and David really can’t say no, if it makes her this happy - he’s that good of a friend.

 

 

  
All of this is how David finds himself just north of Midtown on a Tuesday evening, dragging himself off the subway because he’s trying to be fiscally responsible - _disgusting_ \- and an Uber was too much to justify. He’s regretting that now, because his back is sticky with sweat, which started on the subway but is just getting worse as he thinks about being late, because he _is_ late, of course he is, and the number of people who’ve chewed him out for that, and this was such a terrible idea, damn it Stevie, the last thing David wants is another talking-to from a stranger, to see the judgement and know he’s fucked up again--

 He’s so caught in his thoughts that he passes the corner bistro and has to backtrack. The maitre d’ pretends like he hadn’t noticed and just smiles pleasantly.

 “Hello sir, dining alone?”

 “I’m meeting someone, actually, thanks _so_ much?” David replies, pretty politely, he thinks, all things considered. “Um, I think the reservation is under Stevie Budd.”

 “Ah yes, your friend is already here. Right this way.”

 His date is sitting at a table by the front windows, which means he likely _also_ saw David speedwalk past and then pivot in front of the Qdoba and scurry back this way, but that’s not even half of the worst of it. David has a split second, as the man looks up and smiles and stands, to feel his stomach drop and to realize just how much he’d actually been hoping for something tonight. He’d actually thought _it can be different_ , and he’s such a fucking fool. A totally unreasonable tightness in his throat makes his eyes tingle.

 This man is so obviously not gay - well, David knows better than to jump to that conclusion, but the thought is there, and more importantly this man is so obviously not going to like David, not on any level. He’s all clean lines and warm eyes, without a hint of chaos or confusion. He looks like he calls his parents every week and never runs out of toilet paper and knows how to cook. He looks like he laughs a lot. David hates him. David hates him because he’ll definitely hate David and David wouldn’t normally like someone like him - so normal, so soft - but he does, he likes him even as he hates him. He feels little shutters going up around his heart again, and he’s already composing his angry texts to Stevie in his head. She claims to know him so well, and if she’s doing this as a joke, he’s really done with her.

 It’s all a lot to process in a split second, and then the maitre d’ is gone and the man is leaning forward to offer his hand.

 “David, right? I’m Patrick.”

 "Hi, yes, David," he says, like he hasn't just had a small astral explosion of misery in his chest. "Nice to meet you."

 "Can I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?" their server asks.

 Patrick looks at David expectantly, but David's not going to do all the work here. "Whatever you want," he offers selflessly.

 "Um-" Patrick glances down at the menu. "Red wine?"

 "Which one, sir?"

 Patrick's mouth opens, and David wonders where Stevie found him; he wonders if this is his first week off the farm. "We'll have a bottle of the Malbec," he tells the server.

 Patrick exhales gratefully once they're alone. "Thanks, David. I'm not - I'm normally very decisive," he explains, smiling bashfully, "but I'm kind of nervous. I always feel out of place in these kinds of restaurants. I don't know anything about wine! Why are there so many forks?" he demands.

 He's rambling, this put-together small-town comptroller type, and David should find it pathetic but it's familiar and endearing and he finds himself more at ease, absurdly.

 "Well, this is the one you stab yourself with if the conversation dries up before the salad comes," he replies, deadpan, showing Patrick the smallest fork. "This one's for fishing engagement rings out of champagne."

 "Ah," Patrick grins, and David can see his shoulders relax. _I did that,_ he thinks. "Thank you. You're a lifesaver for clarifying that."

 "Fortunately I'm a very generous person," David shrugs.

 Patrick smiles like he doesn't believe that at all.

 "For what it's worth, I don't think anyone noticed you not belonging here. You look very nice." He winces. Had that come out sarcastic? He hadn't meant it to be sarcastic.

 So do you," replies Patrick. His gaze lingers on the lightning bolt across David's chest. David feels, appropriately, a fissure of white heat crawl across his skin under Patrick's eyes. "You know, Stevie talks about you a lot, but she never mentioned that you were so..."

 "Funky?" David guesses. Best to get out ahead of it.

 "Uh, no," Patrick chuckles, "no, I was going to say handsome."

 "Oh." David fiddles with the salad fork again, reconsidering the conditions for stabbing himself with it. "That's - I mean, you can say it, if you want." A cold swirl of self disgust coils in his stomach - he's just met this guy, has decided to hate him, and yet he's asking him to say David is handsome.

 Patrick smiles and says obediently, "Stevie never said you were handsome."

  _This little shit,_ David thinks, delighted despite himself. "That's not - that's not _exactly_ what you were going to say, I don't think."

 "Were you hoping I'd say something else?"

 "Well, I don't really care if _Stevie_ thinks I'm handsome."

 "That's good, because she never said you were."

 The server returns with their wine, and Patrick just smiles cheekily as it's uncorked and poured. David clutches the menu in front of him, flips it open because they haven't picked out food yet, but he doesn't look down because Patrick is looking at him and smiling and he's looking at Patrick, fighting a smile and losing.

 "I'm beginning to see why you and Stevie are friends," he says tartly as Patrick lifts his glass to David's in a toast.

 "Our winning wit? Our grace on the dance floor?" Even the way Patrick sips his wine is cheeky, and his lower lip disappears for a second as he licks away the lingering sheen, and David picks a random section of the entrees in which to hide his blush.

 "How did you and Stevie meet, anyway?"

 "We're both in an adult sports league."

 David tries to control his face. He thinks he just about manages it. Maybe Patrick didn't notice the way his eyes nearly rolled back in horror. "Um. Like. Squash, or something?"

 "Fantasy football, actually," Patrick corrects him breezily.

  _This_ facial reaction David will _not_ apologize for.

 Patrick bursts out laughing, one hand clutched to his (very nicely formed) chest as he leans forward. "I'm sorry, I'm only joking. We met in a business management class."

 David mulls this over as Patrick watches, clearly amused. "I don't know what's more concerning," he says finally, "that Stevie is taking a business management class or that I'm on a date with someone who is taking a business management class. Though, to be fair, my mom once brought conversation starters to lunch with her own daughter, so it really could be worse."

 This elicits another surprised bark of laughter from Patrick. He looks delighted, and David's head feels funny, a little light and zenned-out like when he's drunk, but he's only had a couple sips of wine.

 "So you come from a close family, then?" Patrick chuckles.

"Mm. Not first date material, unfortunately," David sighs, pretending to pout, though the topic really does have him close to breaking into a sweat again.

 "Ah. Guess I'll have to be patient then."

 Patrick's whole face radiates with something David's never seen before, and it all seems to be directed at him. He realizes, at the word _patient,_ that Patrick hasn't mentioned that David was nearly 30 minutes late, and he opens his mouth to say something about it because this is going too well, but the server comes back to take their orders and Patrick is suggesting they share an appetizer and David doesn't really believe in sharing food but he finds himself saying yes and forgets completely to be self-deprecating.

 It comes out, over a plate of deconstructed mozzarella sticks, that Patrick is an accountant, which is basically a comptroller in David's mind. He is from a small town, no surprise there either. He's taking the business management class because he's always worked for nebulous corporations and he’s interested in being a consultant for small businesses or maybe helping with neighborhood regeneration projects, though he feels like he’s not necessarily culturally literate enough to do that kind of work without it blending into gentrification. And then David, who’s lived in this city for ten years, has to ask small-town Patrick what culturally literate means, because somehow that hasn’t come up in the clubs and art galleries, and Patrick is really sweet as he explains it, not condescending at all, and when David murmurs something about them both having a lot to learn, Patrick has the nerve to _blush._

 David had really thought, for a moment, that this date was a joke to Stevie, that he himself is a joke to her. But it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore, and he doesn’t know when that happened.

 It’s only when he almost knocks over the long-extinguished candle in his fervent gesturing that he realizes the whole restaurant is empty.

 “Oh my god,” he exclaims, and he checks his phone, which is flooded with notifications which he’s been ignoring for the last - _four hours_ ? That can’t be right. “Wow. It is _late_. Have I been talking that much?”

 “I don’t know. I think you’ve been talking the right amount. I didn’t mind, anyway,” Patrick says, like it’s easy. David wonders if Patrick’s actually an aspiring actor Stevie has hired for the night, because only someone playing a part could say things like that.

 The bistro has definitely been closed for a good half hour, so with apologies and a hefty tip - “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual $100 bill,” Patrick whispers in awe - they ease out onto the street.

 The air feels heavy with July humidity and the bubble between them, a bubble David knows is about to burst. But not, he thinks, in the way he wants, the way he is craving.

 Patrick surveys the empty street. He’s probably thinking of a way to end the night with as little awkwardness as possible, which is nice of him, David supposes. Instead, Patrick says, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

 David experiences a flash of what he thinks of as daytime nightmares, a kind of anxiety that’s as vivid as deja vu. He feels like he has a premonition of losing Patrick, of missing Patrick, of regretting have been so vulnerable and happy. Because he _is_ . He’s happy. But this is the part of the date when people either bail and never contact him again or take him home for sex. They don’t ask him to go for a _walk_. “Um, it’s 10:30,” he finally manages.

 “Is it?” Patrick asks, the smug fuck, because he’s wearing a sensible wristwatch like a grandfather and David is sure Patrick knows exactly what time it is. “Do your legs stop functioning after sunset?”

 David tosses his head a bit, a mannerism picked up from Alexis, whose hair is much more suited to the gesture. “I have to work tomorrow,” he offers as justification, which is ridiculous; work has never induced him to make a reasonable decision in his life.

 Patrick is smiling again, that small, closed-mouth smile that seems to emphasize the size of his eyes. “So do I.”

 David huffs. “You’re supposed to the responsible one.”

 Patrick shrugs. “I just think I’ll regret it if we don’t go for a walk right now.”

 The way he says it, and the way he looks lit up from behind by the neon glow from a shuttered storefront, makes the breath rush out of David. He’s never heard someone talk about regret this way: wistful and open. Regret for opportunities missed. Regret for not spending time with David. No one’s ever regretted not being with him.

 He presses his lips together and looks upward, to maintain his fragile exterior of calm, and nods rapidly. “Okay. Yes. Let’s go for a walk.”

 Patrick’s got his hands stuck in his pockets, so David twists his in front of him as they walk down Amsterdam. Their paces are unexpectedly matched, Patrick’s sure, steady stride keeping up easily with David’s longer legs. He thinks, absurdly, of the year and a half when he studied the violin - his teacher had said something about two different pieces of music having tempos that complemented each other. Walking with Patrick felt a little like that.

 “So what do you do, David?” Patrick asks when they’ve gone a block in silence.

 “Hmm?”

 “Well, you said we both have to be at work tomorrow,” Patrick clarifies patiently, “and you know what _I_ do. What do you do for work?”

 “Um.” David squints, then says carefully, “I am a...brand consultant and merchandising associate for a curated consumer experience?”

 “Ah.” Patrick nods, then glances sideways at him, sideways and up, because now that they’re standing David really notices their height difference, notices the willing way Patrick tilts his chin up to smile at him. “You work in retail?”

 “Well, when you put it that way,” David splutters, waving his hands in frustration, “it sounds so...pedestrian.” Being an accountant is pretty pedestrian too, he thinks, but while his first assessment of Patrick had been _normal_ , he feels anything but. He feels _singular._

 “There’s nothing shameful about working retail, David.”

 “Isn’t there, though?” David sighs.

 Patrick grins slowly, showing a bit of his teeth this time, and David’s really got to stop cataloging Patrick’s smiles. “This may be an assumption I’m not qualified to make,” Patrick says kindly, “but I get the sense you like buying clothes-”

 “That’s correct,” David agrees quietly.

 “And how would you do that without all the other people who work retail?”

 “Honestly, ideally I’d only go to stores where I could choose everything by myself and then use one of those self-checkout machines and never have to interact with any humans or their germy hands in the entire process. But...I get your point.”

 “Mhm.” Patrick’s trying not to laugh, he can tell. He should be offended. He’s not.

 Maybe it’s because this time of night is usually reserved for being too drunk to feel or working up the courage to try to get to sleep, but it feels like real emotions are closer to the surface than they normally are and he can’t stop them from spinning into the Manhattan air. “Um, I haven’t actually told anyone this before,” he continues quietly, glancing at Patrick to be sure he’s listening, “but I’ve, um, recently been thinking about going back to school, or maybe opening a gallery, or a store, or something. I don’t know. It’s probably stupid.”

 Patrick’s elbow nudges his side and then glides away, as if he’d just strayed too much into David’s space. “None of that sounds stupid to me.”

 David has to clear his throat; that annoying tightness is back, though it feels different than it had in his earlier panic. “For the record, none of what you said earlier sounded stupid either. The, uh, the stuff about small businesses and all that. It sounded...really cool. And good. Like, you’re a good person.”

 “Thank you, David.”

 He nods, unable to meet Patrick’s gaze.

 Patrick lets out a long breath that’s a bit shaky, like he’s torn between laughing and breaking apart, and David knows the feeling, could probably patent the feeling if he could just pin it down for a second.

 “I really like New York much better at night,” Patrick says, his voice determinedly cheery, trying to push them out of this heavy space they’ve gravitated into.

 David tilts his head, eyes narrowed, lips twisting sideways in a barely-disguised smile. “Okay, but that implies that you generally don’t like New York, and _this_ isn’t going to work if you don’t like New York.”

 “I hardly think my not liking New York would be the biggest of our differences.”

 He doesn’t say it with any malice, and David knows he’s teasing, but he’s well aware that he and Patrick are different and not in a good way, on his side at least. “Bold of you to assume that we’ll be together long enough to discover any of those differences.”

 All of a sudden Patrick stops walking and is in his space so quickly, so smoothly, that David doesn’t back away. He just lets him be there, his chest almost touching David’s chest, his nose at David’s chin, and he can smell Patrick, his aftershave and his wine, and he should feel crowded but he doesn’t, he feels _calm_.

 “Oh, are we not going to be together, David?” Patrick asks, so serenely, so evenly. It’s a stupid thing to send a rush of lust down David’s spine but it _does_ , because Patrick seems so _sure_ of it, seems to want it, but he’s also genuinely _asking_ , not pressuring at all. He’s so confident in a firm, but flexible way, like a tree, or something. David’s not really thinking clearly enough for metaphors.

 “I - um-” David flounders, because the only way he can see this going is Patrick grabbing him in a dramatic kiss that involves David being dipped. “I want dessert.”

 This truly seems to throw Patrick, who pauses, then grins, because of course he does. “Sorry?”

 “I want dessert,” David repeats lamely. “I didn’t get any at the restaurant because we talked so much and then the kitchen closed and I... want some.”

 Patrick steps back, finally, so David can breathe again, the cost of breathing behind that he feels like he’s lost a limb or a vital organ. Patrick is too far away. Patrick is beautiful and kind and too far away.

 “Dessert,” Patrick echoes, nodding. “I think we passed a McDonalds - we could go get those slushie things? The bright blue one, maybe?”

 “Well, it was nice to meet you, but there’s no way in hell,” David says, grabbing Patrick’s hand and shaking it emphatically before doing a very non-regulation about-face and striding in the other direction.

 Behind him, Patrick laughs. “Duane Reade sells chocolate and wine!” he calls. David can picture his face, can picture him standing there on the sidewalk looking perfectly reasonable in his department store slacks. “Maybe like a white chocolate and a wine cooler?”

 “You’re right, these differences are too great,” David shouts, twisting to look back even as he continues walking. “And I take it all back, you’re a _terrible_ person, Patrick-” He realizes he doesn’t know Patrick’s last name, and the thought devastates him unreasonably, because he feels like he _knows_ Patrick but maybe he doesn’t at all-

 But then Patrick is running to catch up with him, has caught up with him, is still laughing and is grabbing David’s hand to keep him from running away. David’s not sure anyone’s ever run after him before; Patrick is apologizing and teasing him but they’re still holding hands. David is walking through the streets of New York on a summer night holding hands with the sweetest man he’s ever met and he’s almost afraid to breathe too loudly for fear this will all disappear.

 “Ooh, want to go in there?” Patrick asks, squeezing David’s hand so that David almost forgets to answer the question.

 “ _Open mic night_?” David reads from the bar’s chalkboard out front. “Ew. Hard pass, thanks.”

 He remembers too late that continually shooting down another person’s suggestions is not the way to entice them to keep holding your hand all night ( _all week, all year, for the rest of our lives_ ), but Patrick doesn’t seem bothered by it, just amused and bemused. “That’s okay. Another time.”

 David is sure he’ll never go to an open mic night so long as he’s of sound mind, but Patrick doesn’t need to know that.

 David buys them each an ice cream cone from the only store that’s still open. “It’s a chain,” he explains wearily to Patrick, “but sometimes we have to sacrifice our values to our baser needs.” Patrick nods sagely.

 They jaywalk to a bench set amongst some bushes on the median between the two lanes. During the daytime, it would be an ungodly spot to take a rest, pressed between the rushing traffic, exposed to all the windows of the surrounding buildings. Maybe Patrick is right, David thinks. Maybe New York at night has its value.

 After a moment of quiet contemplation of their ice cream, Patrick leans against David and points towards a vacant storefront on one of the side streets. “What would you do with that store, if you could? If you wanted to start your own place?”

 David licked around the top of his cone, collecting the sprinkles, lingering a bit more performatively than strictly necessary. “Is this Patrick asking, or my business manager?”

 Patrick considers. “Both?”

 David nods slowly. He thinks about begging off, claiming he hasn’t gotten that far in his brainstorming. But he thinks about this store so much he dreams about it sometimes, and Patrick has asked, and no one ever asks. “Well, it would be like a general store. But also a very specific store?”

 “Uh huh.”

 “Hear me out!” he protests. “It would be a...a one-stop shopping experience for the best of local products. Everything would be under the store brand, which would also be my brand. An alternative to the mass-produced, alienated way we consume nowadays. We would make a concerted effort to engage vendors of color, immigrants, women, queer people, people with disabilities, just like...really try to see the people behind the product and think about them as neighbors and how we’re all here together. Because I think that’s what New York is but it can get lost. And we could do events, you know, ways for customers to get to know the vendors. Classes or mixers or-”

 “Open mic nights?” Patrick suggests.

 “You-” David wants to chide him, but he’s flush with Patrick and chocolate ice cream and his own excitement and he’ll tolerate the mental image of a college student performing solo a cappella music if he can just keep going. “You - or, or someone, I mean, but you if you wanted - could use it as a space for those cultural literacy conversations you were talking about, asking people to come in and meet each other and learn about their community and its history and think about constructive solutions-”

 “What would the store be called?”

 “I don’t - I’m still working on that,” David admits. “It’s too idealistic, isn’t it? Do I even _believe_ in any of the stuff I just said? That all sounded ridiculous, didn’t it, _fuck_ -” 

“Hey,” Patrick whispers, placing his hands on David’s shoulders. Had he already finished his ice cream? David really appreciates people who like food as much as he does. “Yeah, it’s idealistic, but we need that. I envy you your passion, your verve.” 

“My _verve_?” David repeats, letting Patrick pull him from his spiral.

 “Yeah, David, your verve.” Patrick slides his hands up and down David’s biceps. A thousand scattered thoughts are crashing to a halt to let him just be _here_ _now_ and David’s never felt this calm in a crisis before. 

“Well, I envy you your...reliability.” 

Patrick snorts. “You like me for my reliability?” 

David shrugs shyly. He’s past the point of second-guessing now. “I like you for a lot of things,” he breathes. 

Patrick sucks in a shuddering breath, as if he’s still surprised, after everything, to hear this from David, as if he too has been nervous this wouldn’t happen. He brings his hands up to cup David’s face and David would cry if he weren’t too busy right now. “I like you for a lot of things too.” 

David drops his ice cream on the sidewalk so he can wrap his hand around the back of Patrick’s neck and pull him in. It’s a mess of a kiss - they both feel too wired to do it properly, and it dissolves into giggles, but then Patrick presses a few quick kisses to his lips and it’s the softest emotion he’s ever felt for another person and Patrick draws him in with renewed confidence and this time, _this_ kiss feels like the start of something. 

When they sink back onto the bench, David’s hands fiddling with Patrick’s lapels, Patrick’s got another new smile. It’s smaller than the others, but it seems to hold more. David feels - he -  he’s not doubting this, he feels right in this moment, he feels grateful, he- 

“Fuck,” he mutters, rolling his eyes back. 

“What?” Patrick demands, all earnest concern. 

David groans and lets his forehead fall against Patrick’s shoulders. “I’m gonna have to tell Stevie she was right. I _hate_ it when she’s right.”

  



End file.
